Sunday, August 28, 2011

Mini-Him's vocabulary is on the rise, these days. When everything else is on the downswing, when Him and I plan relentlessly for possible emergencies/contingencies/financial upendings etc, this aspect of our lives has a high interest yield. In fact, there's little chance that it'll ever see a downside, Mini-Him being himself.

He's learning to curse. So animatedly. And boy, the permutations and combinations are mind boggling. I had NO IDEA that kids had such depth. We have a daily, front seat view. Next to the Sony speakers with sub-woofers.

pic credit - digitalart; freedigitalphotos.net

The first time he tossed a gem into the air, he was eight. He had just started using the school bus, that veritable home of Ph.d's in multi-hued linguistics. He said Mother F (word rhyming with "Tucker"), with such carelessness, that Him and I forgot to breathe.

"What did you just say?" I finally got out.

"What? Oh! L taught me that. I say it when I'm really frustrated. Like now! This Lego's stuck!" Mini-Him went on, little fingers and short nails, not aiding the said process.

Him never takes these things seriously. His big shoulders shook, and his movie star smile was now a Bacardi rum ad's laugh. I walked out in a huff, as Him choked out, "You....you...can't say it. That's ...hahahaha....that's a terrible word!!!"

"So why are you laughing so hard?" Mini-Him asked, laughing too.

Him ran out, before revealing himself for the bundle of contradictions that he truly is.

"He's my son alright!" he said, like it was ever in doubt.

I fled, crying, to the bathroom. Why, heaven, why could it not have been the F word alone?!

After that, the middle schoolers (the savants in these matters...the Ph.d's remember?) in the bus enlightened him on female anatomy. The words being pornographically precise.

"Mom?" Mini-Him asked, "What's a C (word rhyming with grunt)?"

My bagel got lost somewhere between my esophagus and trachea.

"L's friend B said that to a girl. When she started crying, I threatened to tell on him. He said that he would punch me in the..."

I called his teacher for an appointment that very day.

Apparently, there is a system to follow when reporting these matters. A chain of command, if you will. It took two days and three more unnecessary introductions (b**bs, used(?!) tampon, do**** bag) before Mini-Him was seated upfront. Which he didn't like, because he now sat with first grade girls.

It was good-word bliss at home for about four weeks.

Then the kids of two buses went home together for a week.

"Mom, what're T (rhyming with bits)?" he asked, between bites of apple and peanut butter snacks.

"What?! Again?! Who taught you that?!" It was that time of month, a very painful time of month. Nobody mention female anatomy to me in those days. No one.

"L's other friend D called someone Ba*l S (rhyming with mucker) and called me Sugar T(rhymes with bits)."

What the hell was Sugar T(rhyming with bits)?!!

What was that? Do any of you know what that is? I don't. I don't WANT to know.

Him choked on his coffee that day, when I told him. He guffawed and rolled. He wiped his tears (of joy? his son after all!!) and laughed some more.

I told my father this. I had to tell someone who would be as outraged as I was.

He guffawed too.

It reminded him, he said, of his mother. What? My grandmother? My wonderful, pure, "determined to do and believe only in good", grandmother?

"She wanted to learn English, at the ripe age of 70. So she thought reading a magazine was as good a way as any, to start. She knew the alphabet, and putting words together etc. She would read out some words, some sentences. We were all amused and proud, and humored her. Until the day when she suddenly said, "Bloody Sh**!"

I listened, jaw dropping.

"The four of us rushed to her side when she said that, trying to snatch the evil magazine away from our mother, when she asked, 'What does that mean?' We realized, that she didn't know, and was merely putting words together, as she had always done. We said it was a bad word. She never picked up magazines again. Only newspapers."

I guess there is no age-limit when it comes to these things. I do know that Mini-Him would've picked up these gems at some point in his life anyway. It's just obscene, watching his baby face handle the laden words with ease.

Actually, it's just me, the prude.

Still, he's up front with the first grade girls again. Luckily, there are two other boys from his own grade, who sit in the same vicinity. All of them occasionally look wide-eyed and excited when I see them at the bus-stop. That usually means that censor-worthy words filtered past the back seats.

I then ready my self for a sense-assaulting buffet, that will surely turn my mind off food for a week.